Ruin Me
by Copper Nitrate
Summary: With Shizuo being the most influential man in Japan, and Izaya being the sexiest bitch in the galaxy, life seems to go on. But nope, fate just has to smack them together and- well, long story short, feeding a blonde rich man an expired microwave meal is the best thing that ever happened to Izaya. WARNING: Depression, angst, violence, etc. Rated M for content.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: … So, this was my hidden plot… I was going to publish this when I was finished with** _ **Beauty and the Beast,**_ **my other story, but meh.**

 **Also, I just wanted to share my greatest condolences for the death of Thailand's king, King Bhumibol Adulyadej. May his soul now rest in peace.**

 **Summary: Izaya Orihara and Shizuo Heiwajima are men of two different classes in this social hierarchy of the wealthy and not. With Shizuo being the most influential man in Japan, and Izaya being the sexiest bitch in the galaxy, life seems to go on. But nope, fate just has to smack them together and ruin everything.**

 **Warnings: Boy x Boy love, depression, abuse, violence. Alternate Universe. Rated M for some of the content.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Durarara! And its characters, plot, whatever.**

 **Enjoy?**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1**

Sore.

That was a quite accurate adjective for how I felt. Sore. Literally, physically, _sore_. Nothing could compare.

"Izaya, if you're not picking up those bills, I am."

I squabbled up – and tried to look sexy while doing it. Bad idea. In front of me stood an unhappy looking man (he always looked unhappy, if you asked me), named Kadota Kyohei. Damn, it was kind of dumb of me to try to look sexy in front of this man.

"I am working on it, Dota-chin. In case you haven't noticed, I'm naked and just had dry sex. For this." I casually pointed at the money. "For my rent." Scrambling for my clothing – wait, never mind. That fucking bastard ran off with them. "Dota-chin, mind if I borrow your cardigan?"

"Yes."

"Oh, too bad." I shook my head, and grabbed the soiled blanket and flipped it over. There were suspicious stains, but it would do for a ten-minute walk home. It wasn't like anyone in this part of town cared about a naked man going around in the streets (it was pretty common, anyway), but it was a matter of self-conscience. "By the way, what brings you here?"

"Erika was bugging me to check on you." Lighting a cigarette, Kadota gave the window a look of betrayal. "And I was kind of curious how you looked after sex."

"Well, I look gorgeous." Flipping my short, damp hair, I gave Dota-chin my sweetest smile. He gagged, which was what I was looking for. I somehow collected energy I thought I didn't have, and wobbled on my nonexistent two feet. My whole body was screaming in pain, demanding for rest. I guess five hours of pure, dry sex, was meant to tire out a human being. The blanket felt heavy on my shoulders, as I took a cautious step forward, the thick, crinkled bills in my hand.

The scent of dust greeted me as I exited the apartment. Dust, and a tangy hint of blood. Drugs, sex, pain, agony, emotion, and the trashed. Living in one place, was the slums of this fateful town, Ikebukuro. And surviving along those lines, there was me – Orihara Izaya.

Yes, I am dirty.

Yes, I am sinful.

Sin itself.

Funny.

Very funny.

Kadota was blabbered on some stories about Erika and Allen's usual nonsense. I always found their unidentified reason of always sticking together intriguing – Kadota, Erika, Walker, and Togusa – always together, in these slums. I knew better than anyone that they did not belong here.

At least, they weren't supposed to.

"Izaya, you listening?" He pressed, and I chuckled.

"Of course I am." Nope.

Kadota knew I wasn't. He knew me too well for my convenience. "I was saying, that the Heiwajimas did it again."

"Did what?" I bluntly expressed my curiosity. For some reason, I failed to keep a mask all the time in front of Dota-chin. It was frustrating, because there was nothing like a mutual bond of comfort between us. It was not like me.

"They crashed another slum." Kadota took out a yakisoba bread. Cheap, thirty yen per package. No nutrients, medium calories, saved money. "Makes me wonder why they are hesitating at all, crushing this place."

I smirked. Now that, was a legitimate question. "Who knows?" I nicked a portion of the bread and popped it into my mouth. Kadota slapped my back, for all I cared. "I don't keep constant updates on the Heiwajimas. They aren't really my business. Riches and the douches, I mean."

"Riches and the douches." Dota-chin's lips curled up in fascination. "That has a nice ring to it."

"I know." My steps paused in front of my house; I reached for my keys that were tucked underneath my doormat. Kadota's eyes trailed behind my every movement, as if I were some threatening specimen. "Well then, adieu, Dota-chin." I mumbled between the gap of the closing door, locking it just in time to see the latter depart.

My aching backside leaned against the metal door that was barely glued to its hinges now. Knees giving up, I collapsed on the tiled floor. Exhaustion grew as seconds- no, as milliseconds passed, and my thighs blaming me for the incessant jolts caused by last night.

I made a failed attempt to remind myself what my fridge had in possession. The rancorous fact that I probably couldn't do so meant that I had nothing in it. In which did not help my already bitter mood.

 _Money._ Cash in my hands. It was barely sufficient to pay my landlord this month. There was a limit in how much that greedy man could hold on. A very short limit, too. Which immediately led to the discouraging truth – no food? Well, starvation it is.

Depressing.

That was the first word that popped into my blank mind. How utterly devastating. I sluggishly fumbled the floor and my surroundings, hoping to find a cigarette or anything of the kind, only to be met with more disappointment.

Life.

My phone began to go off, but I ignored it, making my way to the bed. It was most likely something inconsequential, something I didn't find necessary at my current state of physical condition.

So I ignored it.

* * *

"Shizuo, you're going to be late to the next meeting."

"I really don't care."

His secretary winced, making a face that clearly said 'Oh no, not this again'. "Come on. The one that's going to get scolded for your pompous behavior is me, not you."

Fake blonde hair waved in the cold office. "Fire them. Easy."

"That's not exactly something I can decide." Tanaka Tom, his secretary, shook his head. "And besides, you're basically the boss now, with the previous boss giving the seat to you. How about collecting something called responsibility?" He gave his boss an admonishing stare, which was skillfully avoided with the least of concerns.

This man was Heiwajima Shizuo, the most influential man in Japan (close to the world, even), a man that could crush a city at the tip of his damned fingernails, a man that could swoon the government with a single syllable that escaped his lips. He owned over an easy few thousand branches worldwide, and even had the "Underworld" within his left palm.

 _The power of money,_ Tom deduced, as he now simply gazed at his boss, mesmerized. The wealth of the man was almost godly – the meticulous amount would make any human gape- no, it would destroy a human being. Because it was Heiwajima Shizuo in control, the one at the top of the tower, the whole organization maintained tranquil business.

Heiwajima Shizuo was not particularly smart. He was neither the brightest of individuals, nor the most easygoing person in the universe. However, he was a lucky silver spoon – a gold spoon, even. Meaning, half his achievements were accomplished through his horrid wealth.

"Shizuo," Tom tried a second negotiation, "you can't possible manage to miss a ten million yen deal."

"It'll eventually come in another time." Shizuo said it with such certainty with a perfect base of reasoning. It was not an arbitrary statement – Tom knew it better than anyone. Yes, a few million yen deals were something that arrived around every corner of the week or so. It wouldn't exactly hurt to miss one. "And besides, I don't like the boss for that company. I heard a few things from Kida."

Tom's eyes fluttered open at that. "Kida? Kida Masaomi?"

Now, let's pause there. Kida Masaomi – a talented informant that worked specifically for the Heiwajimas. He claimed a certain person discovered his talents that he encountered during his youthful ages. He behaved more like a rambunctious teenager than a informant, but all of them passed that over.

"Yes, Kida Masaomi. Apparently they're tied to some drug dealing incidents that happened over the course of months. I have no intentions of getting them framed or whatever, but I'd rather stay out of any deals they offer." Tom gave in at the explanation. Shizuo wasn't completely an idiot, with all the massive education he received as a child at a private school for rich kids.

"Also, I plan on scouting out the slums out in the outskirts Ikebukuro today." The young Heiwajima continued.

"Oh. For the new building?"

"Yeah. It's the fucking last one left. The only reason we weren't able to get rid of it earlier was because of all the illegal trading and smuggling going on – it was the center of their business. Now it should be gone for good riddance." Shizuo stood on his firm feet, grabbing his black trench coat and car keys.

Tom closed the door and turned off the fancy lights for the chandelier in the office as they exited. "Should I drive you?"

Shizuo considered the idea. "No. I want some time to myself. Irritating pests have been getting on my nerves nowadays."

"Very well. Don't break anything on your way, okay? It'll sully the reputation-"

"I know, I know." The doors to the fancy white Porsche clicked open. He set out to explore the slums, not knowing what twisted fate awaited him.

* * *

Hunger.

" _Dad?"_

Solitude.

" _Dad, where are we going?"_

Abandonment…

" _Sell him?"_

Betrayal…

" _We can't support him."_

Effaced…

" _We'll have to forget him."_

My eyes snapped open at the memory. I clawed at my shirt to make sure I was still in existence – not vanishing away, my inner demons eating my conscience until there was nothing left.

"It's just a dream." I convinced myself, managing to piece my sanity back together. "Just a dream." My voice shook, and my lower half jerked in surprise as I tried to move. Burning pain slowly seeped through my bones again, my muscles contracting in refusal.

I somehow forced myself off the rough futon. Food. I was craving for any sort of victual – rotten or not, edible or not. When I flung my fridge open violently to the side, I was met with one microwave meal – one that expired two weeks ago. I was in luck that this apartment room even came with a microwave – or else I wouldn't have the money to afford one.

Groaning, I popped the plastic meal into the microwave, closed it, and entered the usual time in. I hoped it wasn't spoiled, because then that meant I would have to starve until I paid the rent.

While waiting for the food to be prepared, I reached for my phone that was on the floor. I had missed forty-one calls from people I didn't know, and one from Dota-chin. Not like I really cared – Kadota called every now and then, just to check whether he was still alive.

Right. What was the time?

I glanced at the clock on my phone's screen. Nine in the evening.

Ugh. That was too early for anything to happen.

Just when I was about to close my phone, a message arrived, with a rather disturbing notification sound that I forgot to change.

It was from Dota-chin – of course.

The message read:

 _[You have a Porsche parked outside your apartment. What the hell did you do?]_

… A what?

I typed back in bewilderment.

 _[A Porsche, as in the fucking car?]_

In less than a minute, he had punched back a ferocious response.

 _[Yes, a FUCKING Porsche. WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO]_

He must've been pretty damn frustrated if he forgot to add a period or whatever at the end, I thought. But for one thing, I could not recall any of my clients owning a white Porsche. None of my clients were exactly that rich and sensible to begin with. Most of them were sex-deprived old men, or frustrated gay college students that had a terrible breakup with their ex-boyfriends.

But never the Riches and Douches. Never.

So I quietly exited my apartment room (he was clearly there for a reason, hopefully not me, considering the only person that lived in my apartment was me) and looked down to get a better glimpse at this man, completely forgetting about the meal in the microwave.

But then he saw me first.

I didn't even flinch, as he opened his mouth to speak. For some reason, I expected him to start spurting flamboyant French at me. But no, what came to my ears was flawless, slightly gruff, Japanese.

"Hey, do you live here?"

Duh. Did he think I was taking emergency refuge at this apartment? Making out at a lover's room?

"Yes, I do." I flicked a finger. "Are you a client?"

He seemed confused, which meant he obviously wasn't here for me, and precisely my sexy service. "No."

"Aw. You sure? You won't regret it." This had to be a chance. A chance for me to rip some shitty bills out of that blonde's pocket. Out of his expensive Burberry trench coat, out of his fucking who-knows-what-famous-brand shoes and sunglasses.

But instead, he stole a cautious glance at his watch. Oh god, that was a Rolex. A solid silver and gold Rolex right there. How much would that even cost? A few million yen?

"I'm not particularly into sexual trade." My face fell. "But I would appreciate it if you have something to eat. My tire got flat, so I have to wait until my secretary arrives."

Bingo.

"Five thousand yen."

He blinked. "What?"

"Five thousand yen," for an expired microwave meal, "for food. What do you say?"

I did not expect him to say what he did so nonchalantly afterward.

"Sure."

Oh god. I hated the Riches and Douches, seriously.

He walked up the stairs to my apartment room, as I opened the door again. He wrinkled his nose at the poor environment (at least, that's what I think he seemed so bothered about), and then stared at the small table I had next to my "kitchen".

"You can sit there." I mumbled, taking out my microwave meal. I wondered what the consequences would be for getting a wealthy person sick.

"Would this table break?" He asked with serious concern, and I laughed aloud – it sounded exactly like what those Rich and Douches would say!

"No." I said through my laughs. "By the way, what's your name? I'm not going to take money from a stranger," although I did that all the time, "when I'm about to feed them."

He hesitated. I don't know what I expected. An infamous family name that I didn't know about?

"Heiwajima Shizuo."

Oh.

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

"Heiwajima Shizuo."

I froze.

I literally froze, like the Statue of Liberty had always been standing in my apartment, with the face of me, Orihara Izaya.

"Like," I tried to find the words in my jumbled dictionary of vocabulary. "As in, Heiwajima Shizuo is your friend? Acquaintance? _Relative_?" I couldn't have possible gotten myself involved with the Heiwajimas. I couldn't have – I just – I couldn't have. Through nearly 23 years of being alive on this surface of Earth, I made sure from start to end that I kept my distance from the Riches and Douches.

Now?

After all that time, now?

 _Really_?

"No." Who knew a single word could be so destructive? "My name. It's Heiwajima Shizuo. Is there a problem with that?"

 _YES! MANY PROBLEMS!_ I thought, but kept a perfect poker face. I lived a life of spurious lies, liars, fools, crooks, and all kinds of people. This was just a Heiwajima. Just. A. Fucking. Heiwajima.

A fucking influential Heiwajima.

Oh my god.

"Not at all." I mustered a smile in response, as I took out the meal from the microwave. Thankfully, it smelled okay. Not like your dreamy French or Italian cuisine from a three-star Michelin restaurant, but you know. Close enough. I placed the meal in front of him, in which he stared at it for a while with a look filled with emotions that seemed like a mixture or horror and curiosity. "Well?" I glanced at it. "Eat up. Oh, and give me my money." I outstretched my hand towards him, in which he crinkled his nose at as if I was some grotesque piece of filth in the air.

… Which I suppose, was quite accurate, but still.

"Here you go." He took out a few bills, in which I counted them, trying my best to hide the excitement. Picking up the plastic spoon, he poked on the mushy carrots in the container, and winced.

"It's edible." I assured him, _although it is considerably outdated._ "If you're not gonna have it, then I am." I mean, who cared at this point? I got my cash, and my business was done as soon as this guy finished up. Hell, I wouldn't even bat an eyelash if he threw this meal in my face and storm off in his flat-tired white Porsche!

"No, I…" He hesitated. "How in the world can a carrot be so…" I waited for him to find his words. "… Lifeless?"

Blink.

Blink.

Carrot.

Lifeless.

I burst out laughing. "A carrot is _always_ lifeless! Well, I suppose it's alive, since plants are alive and all that shit, but really, who says that a carrot is –"

"I've been to two-star Michelin restaurant in the States – I think it was California, or Utah. I can't remember quite well. They made excellent vegetarian dishes, or any dish that required using vegetables in general. This," He shuddered, "is like a piece of rubbish on a plastic platter."

I snorted. See? They never change. They're the same. They're all the same. All the Riches and Douches will fucking fuss over a piece of carrot and call it rubbish on a plastic platter, giving the money nevertheless, complaining afterward, never knowing how lucky they are for even a proper piece of clothing they possess, the fact that they could live with no concerns in mind-

"Well, but there's no reason for me not to try this… interesting dish out." He popped the carrot into his mouth, his lower jaw moving left and right, as he closed his eyes to savor the 200-yen microwave meal.

On the contrary, I was not expecting this. I mean, sure, I couldn't care less whether this guy got a stomachache or whatnot. But…

"Is this supposed to taste like Worcestershire sauce?" Chewing his food, Shizuo spoke. "It says so on the cover: ' _Beef stew: with Worcester sauce!'_ , but it sure tastes like a cheap one. No, more like… this is close to a liquid with just sugar and… ketchup? It tastes like ketchup. Worcester is not supposed to taste like ketchup."

"Oh really." I tried to sound interested. "I wouldn't know."

Shizuo didn't say anything again for the next five minutes, for a reason I couldn't bother to comprehend. But when he opened his mouth, I came to a conclusion that he was almost done eating, judging by the appearance of the nearly emptied container. "Hey, what's your name?"

What? "Pardon?"

"Your name. It's only polite for me to at least heed your name, after receiving a meal. Oh, and do you have a napkin?" I grabbed some from the counter, and handed it to him, my mind running rapidly with various thoughts. Should I lie to him? Nah, I was too famous among the locals here, as the fucking male prostitute-ish man that would literally blow a Siberian husky for money (which was totally untrue). Was there any benefit in me lying to him about my identity? When he could simply point a finger to ask someone to figure out everything about me, from what brand of underwear I wear, to the latest person I fucked with?

No. Absolutely no benefits.

"It's Orihara." I didn't know why I left out my given name. "… Orihara Izaya."

"Mm." He gave a subconscious nod. "I see."

Awkward silence passed through the room after that, as both of us didn't seem to know what to say.

"Hey, Orihara." I found it quite comical, how he was polite enough to address me by my surname, but not polite enough to add a suffix of formality to the end – like "-san", or even "-kun". But again, I wasn't expecting anything of the sort, so I wasn't disappointed in the slightest.

9 out of 10 times when this occurred – as in, if anyone called me by my family name, I would usually correct him or her – to address me as 'Izaya', not 'Orihara'. I disliked unnecessary customs, whether that was deemed cultural or whatnot. I liked my given name.

But this was probably going to be only time – as in, that 1 out of 10 times possibility, where I'd dismiss that idea. Only because… well, even I couldn't pinpoint out the exact reason myself. Was it because I felt a sense of infantile hatred towards this man, only because of the invisible distance that stood between us – a despicable, far distance that people renamed as the "social hierarchy"? And due to that basis of reasoning, I didn't desire this man to be granted the common privilege of one calling me "Izaya"? So petty! If that was really how my mind was functioning, then that just proved how utterly childish and immature I was.

"Yes?" Amongst my trail of laughable thoughts, I responded weakly.

"Why are you here?"

His question threw me off a few miles, I admit. I would've caught on better if he elaborated a bit more on it.

"If you're wondering why my physical body exists in this very vicinity, then that answer is more than simple – this is my house, Heiwajima-san." Mockingly, I jittered along my sentence, enjoying each syllable. It was kind of entertaining on my part to see the slight inflammation of irascibility growing below that dark brown abyss of his eyes.

"No, rather, I meant your occupation."

My occupation. That was questionable. "What about it?"

"Well," he seemed to be searching for the correct matchup of words, "you're a prostitute, aren't you?"

Haha. Very funny. "You are half right." Shrugging, I leaned back on the support of my chair, folding my legs up so that they touched my chest – that wasn't naked, for once. "Dragging myself into prostitution – that is merely another method of mine, for earning cash. I work as many other things. Sometimes a bartender, sometimes a part-time worker at the only convenience store around this junky area, and…" I hesitated. My past felt like it was creeping back to me, its hands touching my shoulders and feet. I curled in my toes protectively. "I used to work as an informant."

He seemed to be intrigued by that. I mean, everyone would be, except Dota-chin, probably. Orihara Izaya, the bitchiest male prostitute in the sinful district of Ikebukuro, once worked as the most wanted person by the yakuza and all living black organizations out there! It was a great joke, for sure.

"An informant." He repeated, much to his amusement. "I have one too. Gaudy one, but reliable when he needs to be." Then he paused, which made my heart clench a little. I didn't know why I was nervous. Was it because I didn't want anyone to know what I used to do? My past? Was I genuinely fearful – afraid – that this man would figure me out? "But why did you quit?"

"Complications." I mumbled, regretting the fact that I didn't prevent this topic from being brought up. "Nothing else, really."

His eyes were truly piercing, as if they were a pair razor beams that were scanning every bit of the deepest pits of my soul. I almost instinctively reached out my hand to cover them – in order to hide something that wasn't visible by the bare human eye.

"Hm." His tone was inquiring, but his words said something else. "I see."

You see. As if.

"When's your driver coming? Or what?"

"My secretary." He corrected, turning on his phone. Even his phone was the newest model, god damn it. Dialing a number, he put the device to his ear, waiting as he tapped his index finger impatiently on the table. "Hey, Tom-san?" Tom. What an utterly unique name. "No, I did not burn down another- yes, I had dinner. What? No, I did not. It was okay. Right. I mean, I think we do need to do a fucking checkup on the company that was in charge of making soggy carrots and ketchup-like Worcestershire sauce in microwave meals –" He retaliated quickly from the speaker as I heard a deafening reprimand on the other side of the phone. "Look, I won't kill myself by eating a microwave meal." I winced at this, remembering the fact that the meal was technically expired.

"Right." He went on. "Mm, I get it. Right. Okay. By eleven-thirty?" Glancing at his watch, he grunted. "Got it. Bye."

"Hysterical secretary you got there." I eyed, and he rolled his ankles on the floor to stretch.

"He isn't always like that." The Heiwajima mumbled, somewhat defensively. "Tom-san is nice. Only when he isn't rambling for a few eternities about not sullying the reputation of my family name, that is. And do you have a lighter?" At least his cigarette wasn't high class. I handed him my lighter (I barely made use of it).

Not sullying the family name – when he said that, he sounded beyond irritated. I guess the Riches and Douches had their own personal problems.

"He's coming at eleven-thirty, isn't he?" I glanced at my own plastic alarm clock. It was ten. Still a good fucking hour and a half left – why couldn't that damned secretary come any faster? "Are you sure 'sullying the family name' doesn't include hanging out with the hottest male 'prostitute' in the outskirts of Ikebukuro?"

Ooh, he twitched. I gotta admit, this guy was pretty handsome. Lean body, sexy lips, alluring eyes, long, strong fingers – there was absolutely no way he could be a virgin.

Nevertheless, he answered, keeping his composure. "You fed me, I paid you. It was nothing more than business."

"Nothing more than business." The words hung in my throat. "Same goes for prostitution, just saying."

Heiwajima Shizuo seemed like he was resisting the urge to punch me in the face. Not like I could care – but I sure was having a lot of fun. A troubled look befalling on his face, the man crossed his right leg over his left, lighting the cigarette as his shoulders relaxed.

Aw. Boring.

"I don't like it." He said out of the blue, the smoke making its own trail up the atmosphere.

"What?"

"I don't like what they call 'sullying the family name'. Which is precisely why I won't care about what they think I did. Besides," The way he stared at me – fuck. I am _not_ hard right now. "You don't seem half bad, anyway. You just like annoying people, that's all."

I felt my teeth clawing into my bottom lip in discomfort. This freaking Heiwajima Shizuo was analyzing me. I didn't like it when other people did that to me. "You can continue thinking that."

 _Don't act like you fucking understand me._ Was what I wanted to say, with three cups of sass (the basic teenage blonde girl cliché), but I refrained myself from doing so. This was a Heiwajima I was facing, not a- I don't know, a Dota-chin or Erika. Or I don't know, a Kishitani.

"But, eleven-thirty, huh…" Mr. I-only-wear-Rolex-watches murmured, as he pulled on his shirt and sniffed it. His face scrunched up in the most grotesque fashion I've seen today, after the last guy's dick I sucked. "I know I might be asking too much, but –"

"With money, nothing is ever too much to ask." I was pretty quick to respond. He gave me a considerable nod, but looked quite uncertain nonetheless.

"Well, do you think I could take a shower? Tom-san isn't coming in another hour or so." But then his eyes widened, as if he remembered something. "Um, I don't have money on me right now."

"Deal's off, then." What did this guy take me for – a philanthropist? He should know better than anyone, that in this world, business was never one-sided. With a request, followed a payment.

His eyebrows furrowed, and formed a crease on his forehead. His lips curled to the side, displaying the amount of stress he was under, and also the inner frustration devouring his sanity. Finally, he gave me a long sigh, as if he made up his mind. "I'll give you my number. Actually, don't you have a bank account? I'll just –"

"I'm of the perspective where uncanny people are constantly after my tail, Heiwajima- _sama_." I sneered. "It's smart not to keep a bank account here, to be honest, especially if you're someone of my position."

" _Fine_." His knees buckled in defeat – it was my win. "Give me your number. Call me, and I'll give you anything you want. Satisfied?" His voice was like a teasing hot, rich espresso – bitter, deep, and amazing.

I mentally slapped myself.

Orihara Izaya, you can't _dare_ go falling heads over heels for a man you met like forty minutes ago.

"Satisfied, I am." A small snicker escaped my mouth, as he now just bluntly glared at me menacingly. Ripping off his Burberry coat, and unbuttoning his Massimo Dutti shirt, the man slammed the door to my bathroom, leaving his other belongings outside. I had the sly urge to nick a few things, but I couldn't stoop that low as a human being, no matter where I was at this shitty social hierarchy.

When I heard the calming sound of the latter rinsing off his shampoo, the bundles of soap and water splashing against the surface of the floor (I was impressed that he even knew how to use my shower that looked like it was at least thirty years old), I headed towards my couch, burying my face in the soft cushions.

What was I doing?

Right, I involuntarily invited the wealthiest man in Japan into my cheap apartment room, gave him an expired microwave meal (he even _paid_ for it), and now he was in my shower, taking his sweet time.

"Guh…" I groaned – my back was starting to kill me again. I momentarily forgot that I had dry sex just a few fucking hours ago with this- uh, great. Who was he again? His name was something really weird. Whatever. It didn't matter anymore.

Just in time, the blonde exited the bathroom, his hair soaked, and small water droplets tracing bits of his revealed skin. Well, revealed skin – as in his whole upper torso.

Oh god.

This was not healthy for my exhausted cock.

"Do you have a shirt I can use?" I opened my mouth to warn him about the proper payment I was going to receive from this, but he rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm going to give you what you want, you greedy shit." Oh, getting comfortable here, aren't we? "Now can I borrow a shirt or what?"

I couldn't help but chuckle. This man was making my day in more ways than one. "Just wait for a sec." Walking towards my drawer, I took out the biggest shirt I had. I think it wasn't actually my shirt, but oh well. It would work. "Here you go." Throwing him the piece of clothing, the man pulled it on without hesitation. I couldn't help but be slightly disappointed that the nudity vanished.

And that was when my doorbell rang.

"That's probably Tom-san." The other yawned, as he tossed his expensive coat over his shoulder.

Very well, when I opened the door, the man standing in front wasn't anyone I recognized. He did appear to be very aggravated, his hands clenching and unclenching, his face covered in sweat. "Is Shizuo here?" He grumbled, his glasses slightly fogged. "And who are you?"

Those two questions should've been reversed, but whatever.

"Yes, he is here." I replied, "And I am –"

"Orihara Izaya, my friend. I asked him for help, since he lives around here – well, if you have the ability to see, actually, my tire went flat right in front of his apartment. He's an informant." He put his hand on top of my head, as if trying to turn off a switch that connected to my vocal cords.

Wait, since when was I this guy's friend that became an informant (well, that was kind of true in its own way.)? But before I could question, this fucking almighty dude gave me warning glimpse, which meant that I was probably better off not saying anything.

Oh, right. Unsullied family reputation.

… Ugh.

"Anyway, _I-za-ya,_ " I didn't forget to note how he annunciated every single syllable of my name. "Here's my number." He flashed his screen in front of me, in which I reached for my own and punched it in with gritted teeth.

"I thought you two were friends?" This Tom-san frowned. Oh, totally. We were so friends.

"We are." And this man was just as keen to deceive his poor secretary. "Aren't we, Izaya?" That was not a question, but a demand.

Well, who am I? I am a hell of an actor, Orihara Izaya, who has been acting practically my whole entire life.

"Of course, Shizu- _chan_." Said Shizu-chan cringed, not expecting the adorable suffix. Even Tom shuddered at that. I winked at him, just for the extra effect.

"See you later, then."

"Sure, Shizu-chan." I was having too much fun with this.

Of course, at this time, I didn't know that this event was the most ridiculous mistake I have made in my life.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello, guys. Thanks for the support, by the way! Although like 3 of the reviews were exactly the same (I found that pretty funny), it's okay.**

 **Anyway, review please!**

 **Copper Nitrate**


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